


Kleonauts: Rescue

by Parsek



Series: KLEO [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Gen, RPG
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 02:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parsek/pseuds/Parsek
Summary: The ship was in much better shape than the others; her mast was untouched and her cracks were freshly filled and sealed. She only had one set of oars, a rare occurrence but not unheard of—people like Percy could pick up the slack just fine on their own—and one word was painted on the port side of her hull in thick, bold letters: KLEO. [Ancient Greece RPG AU]
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood
Series: KLEO [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2214747
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Forged Destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/778050) by Coeur Al'Aran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors' Notes: Welcome. This collaborative project is a Gamer-eqsue Ancient Greece AU of Percy Jackson and the Olympians heavily inspired by Coeur Al'Aran's epic Forged Destiny. Everyone is born within an RPG system that tracks roles, skill-trees, etc.. It's not exactly like Coeur's, in fact, we spent quite a while building and balancing our own system with its own mechanics to reflect Greek Myth. We won't go into it in full right now, but trust that they will be explored as the story progresses. This project has been in the works for a while, and we're very happy to finally share it with you. Enjoy, and if you're particularly invested let us know what you think in a review. Cheers!  
> —Parsek

#  **α**

#  **PERSEUS** **  
****Lvl. 14 Sailor**

* * *

Looking back, what struck Percy most of all was how normally the day began. Forcing himself out of his wools at such an ungodly hour was second nature at this point, so was wordlessly greeting Ermis at his small skiff. Several hours on the water yielded a larger than usual catch. The shallower areas Ermis’ skiff was limited to hosted mainly trout and whitefish, migrating away in the cooler winters, but the larger distances Percy was able to coax from the small boat made up the difference and would see his fishing-master profit more than his competitors.

The skiff thunked against the dock post and Percy reached out with his sandaled-foot, brushing the coil of rope with his toes before activating _Knots_. The Skill, one of two he had developed, had been honed over years. The rope twitched as if alive, snaking out to wind its working end around a cleat on the dock and mooring the boat. He heaved a basket over the edge and onto the planks, dropping it just short of another pair of feet. Percy looked up askance at the Farmer.

“The least you could do is help, there’s quite a few of these today,” Percy commented with exaggerated disapproval. Grover, his oldest friend in the world, reacted exactly as predicted. Bringing his walking staff forward as if to ward off the ocean, the Farmer shuffled back a few steps. Peeking out from behind the carved goat head at the top Grover looked like a lacklustre Chimera. 

“You are my brother Perseus, but there is no treasure in all of the world or on shining Olympos that would make me get on a boat.”

“Tch. Don’t call me that.” Percy shivered in disgust as his full name sounded in the open air.

“Tch. Don’t tell me to get on that demon raft.” Grover answered, his eyes narrowing. Percy smiled, Grover did as well, and for a moment Percy could breathe easily. His eyes searched around his feet for the familiar forms of Grover’s flock, missing them in the satchel that usually held at least one of them. He caught sight of a disgruntled Goliath chasing an unrepentant Obelix in circles around a long-suffering Asterix several feet behind his friend. Hauling a small basket over his shoulder, his cut of that morning’s haul, Percy collected his three silver oboloi from the stern-faced Ermis and left without a word. Ermis wasn’t one for talking and Percy could appreciate that, especially given how generous the ageing Fisherman was.

Having a classed kakoi like his mentor pay half a day’s wages for a few hours of work from a boy was unheard of in the village. Not to mention the fact that it was under his watchful eyes that Percy had ended up settling four years ago as a Sailor. The momentous occasion had been marked by a celebration, at least, one as large as had been affordable.

His mother had invited Grover's family, Ermis and his son Luke for a lavish dinner. Their modest table had been burdened with tender beef stew, honeyed bread, fresh cheeses and jugs of wine. She was amazing like that, always going above and beyond when they barely had enough to get by. When he was a kid she spent hours upon hours at the bakery she worked at, making cakes and decorating them until she had developed a Skill that let her change the colour of food. She had brought home bright blue cakes and bread for weeks afterwards simply because he had loudly declared one night that ‘blue was the best colour in the whole world.’ Sally the Patissier deserved everything the world could give her—everything that their _village_ refused to.

Montauk was a small town on the islet of Poros. Calling it an island was a stretch, though. With some fancy footwork, most grown men could _walk_ most of the way to the mainland if they had a spare set of dry sandals. Their main trade was whatever they could haul from the water, and the Spartan settlement barely managed to keep afloat during the chaos of the Peloponnesian War. Home to roughly one-hundred-fifty souls, Montauk was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone. ‘A safe place,’ his mother would whisper as she combed her fingers through his tangled hair.

… Not that any level of security could make up for how the people treated him and his mother. It had only taken a day after she had shown up destitute—clutching an infantile Percy—before rumours ran rampant that she was a prostitute. She must have angered or stolen from the father, why else would she flee with her bastard. Having a natural-born son was already an incredible mark of shame on his mother, but in such a close-knit populace as Montauk, it was social suicide. Times had been lean until his friendship with Grover had unknowingly gotten his mother the opportunity to work at a bakery owned by one of his family’s friends.

Percy was yanked violently out of his thoughts, his efforts to try and forget about Montauk abandoned completely in the face of the trails of smoke rising in the distance. Screams echoed out along the beach.

He dropped the basket from his shoulder and ran, ignoring Grover’s confused exclamations from behind him. He had to find his mother. Sprinting through the streets Percy dodged around hysterical villagers and past flaming houses. All rational thought had ceased in the face of his efforts. A horrible feeling spread through his body, the bottom of his stomach falling out from underneath him. He was sure somehow that something terrible was happening.

Rounding the last turn he grabbed the corner post of a house and slid roughly to a stop, the smooth soles of his sandals struggling to find purchase on the dusty ground. Percy’s eyes darted around the agora wildly and landed on his mother in front of the bakery. He almost sighed in relief but noticed the creatures surrounding her.

Four wolf-like beasts paced around her, pawing the ground in frustration at being held back by his mother swinging a lit torch in great arcs in front of her. Though on all fours, they would have come up to his shoulder if he stood by them. Their skin was leathery and uneven, marred with ugly scars crisscrossing their bodies. Bright orange slobber dripped from fanged maw and splattered everywhere when they barked and howled, it sizzled on contact with the ground. They were not alone however, hovering behind and above them was a winged… thing. Leathery bat wings kept the naked monster afloat, its apparent female from at odds with its sallow skin and pinched features. Even from this distance, Percy could see that pointed claws had replaced its fingers and where its eyes should be were orbs of fire stuck in her head.

Three of the hounds pushed forward towards his mother and drew her attention, but Percy’s position behind them let him see the fourth crouch down, muscles in its flank rippling. Percy had spent enough time around Goliath to know what a dog about to pounce looked like.

Without stopping to consider his actions he dashed forward. Yelling random obscenities Percy swiped a length of iron from the abandoned smithy. The beasts faced him immediately, classifying the loud boy with the metal rod as a greater threat than the woman with a flickering torch.

“ _Run!_ _GO_ … _inside mom!_ ” he called out as he neared the hounds. His mother, obviously reluctant, made to reply but thought better and ducked back towards the doorway of the bakery. The monsters’ hulking mass belied their agility, within seconds the leading one was upon him, lunging forward with its jaw open to bite down on his shoulder. Percy barely managed to avoid the flash of teeth by falling to the ground, he clambered to his feet just in time to swing heavily into the second creature. Even a solid hit with his entire body weight behind it was barely effective. The beast whined in pain and shook its head in an attempt to soothe the pain of its bruised snout. That… was not good. He immediately struck off to the side through the village’s small agora trying to put distance between him and the hound that was now behind him. No one had ever taught him how to _really_ fight, that was true doubly for monsters, but he made the safe bet that it was a terrible idea to be surrounded by things stronger than you.

In a moment of realisation, his hand went to the knife tucked into his belt. It was a small thing, mainly kept for emergencies but a treasured gift from his mother. Percy dove away from a pouncing beast and landed heavily on a stack of pottery, shattering them under his weight. He groaned in agony at the shards digging into his back but rolled to his feet. The monsters’ greater numbers meant he barely had time to breathe. Brushing aside some debris the Sailor grabbed a length of twine. Using _Knots_ he lashed his knife to the end of the rod still clutched in his fist, leaving a finger to rest on the twine itself so he could continuously use the skill to hold the knife in place.

Percy swung the rod into a tent post to test it, feeling the edge of the knife bite satisfyingly into the wood he yanked it back out. Just in time apparently, as three of the hounds had arrayed themselves in a half-circle around him. Wait… where was the fourth one. The middle beast interrupted him with an open maw, tch rude. Percy sidestepped again, something he seemed to be doing a lot these past few minutes, and stabbed out with his improvised half-spear. The cobbled-together weapon skittered off the leathery skin as if it had slammed into stone rather than a living thing.

That was going to be a problem. Over the growling surrounding him, Percy was able to make out the missing fourth Hound a distance away. It was hidden from sight by several tents and stalls that had miraculously survived the chaos but the direction of the sound was enough to tell him that the creature had returned to the bakery.

Percy about-faced and ran directly towards his mom. The monsters behind him crawled over themselves in pursuit, knocking into stalls and piles of merchandise ultimately slowed down by getting in their own way. With the knife useless he had no idea what to- hold on just a second now. Still running Percy reached down and stuck his arm into a coil of rope, as his forearm slammed into the inside of the coil he activated _Knots_ and picked it up with him. At the next few stalls, Percy was able to collect a few more until so much rope was coiled around him that he resembled a scarecrow. The extra weight had taken its toll, however, and his slower pace meant that the hounds were nipping at his heels by this point. Deciding that this would have to be enough Percy planted his leading foot on the next stride and pivoted. Swinging his arms out he used _Knots_ to rapidly unravel the rope around his arms and torso and extend it towards the pursuing monster.

Acting almost like a net, the crisscrossing lines swallowed the three creatures and were barely able to bring them to a halt several feet away. Percy devoted roughly half of the rope to hold them, it wound around their limbs and locked the creatures in place. He heard the cords straining and creaking under the strain so in an impulsive move sent the other half of the ropes still in his hands to snake around the neck of the closest monster. Percy roared and with an effort of will wrenched the rope around, a wet crunch rang out and he felt something strain in his skull. The sudden throbbing headache was quickly forgotten at the familiar feeling of levelling up. The fulfilling warmth rose quickly from the pit of his stomach through his neck, the euphoric wave swiftly wiping away the pain.

Percy could not take the time to marvel at the feeling, or get accustomed to the new lightness in his step as his inattention was enough for the remaining two hounds to claw their way forwards a little. It was a matter of moments to reach out and snap their necks as well, powerful corded muscles that he wouldn’t have been able to encircle with his arms breaking like twigs under the unyielding cables.

It was a surreal feeling to level up so quickly, what would have taken years of fishing and sailing alongside Ermis he had accomplished in less than ten minutes. The euphoria was still running rampant through his body, aches and bruises from his recent evasive acrobatics had faded into an afterthought and Percy felt his mind grow sharper.

The ground shuddered violently and ripped apart the last remaining stalls and stood around him. Their cloth covers fluttered down and Percy stood stationary, unaffected by the harsh quake due to his passive skill, _Shorelegs_ which allowed him to instantly adjust to an unsteady ground. The skill, which had developed when he had settled, was likely intended to serve as an instant sea-legs or land-legs but seemed to come in very handy at always keeping a firm footing. His mother had no such passive, however, and cried out in pain as his head bounced off of the ground. The dull thunk made Percy wince and he immediately moved to check her.

It was at this point that the winged creature that had been a bystander until this point suddenly reintroduced itself. Bursting forward with a powerful beat of leathery wings the monster made to skewer him on its vicious claws. His passive proved to be a boon however and Percy leapt backwards out of the creature’s path. Instead of twisting around and focusing back on him as he expected it to, the woman, whom Percy had vaguely recognized from stories around the fire as a kind of harpy, continued onwards towards his mother.

Scooping her up effortlessly, with a strength that did not seem apparent in her spindly arms, the harpy flew towards a growing crack through the ground.

“No!” His wild lunge was interrupted as the enormous rift in the earth snapped shut as fast as it had opened with his mother was on the wrong side. All that was left to show for his attempts were the ropes he had bound to him embedded cleanly in the earth. Undaunted by the once more shaking earth Percy began to slam his hands into the dust as if shattering the ground would be all that was required to get his mother back.

Percy’s hands were bloodied by the time Grover found him. His friend’s presence fading into background noise amidst the larger issue. It was only when Grover reached out and physically pulled him to his feet did he acknowledge the _Farmer_. As he whirled and readied to fight him off for pulling Percy away he noticed that Grover’s eyes had not strayed from above his head.

Above his head, the letters of his settle seemed to flicker in and out of sight. The letters began to fluctuate wildly and jumble together before stretching back out into coherence. Hovering over him, etched in blue, was one word.

 _Raider_.

* * *

**PERSEUS**

**Lvl. 16 Raider**

_Aspects_

Mind: 24

Body: 47

Breath: 42

Soul: 28

Arcana: 38

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello and welcome, I have been unwillingly drafted as the voice of this iconic character. It was a challenge to capture the personality of Percy in the context of Ancient Greece, so any feedback would be helpful and appreciated. The second chapter will be up next week, courtesy of Pincoat (TheUnHolySmirk FFN).  
> —Boots (KingRagnarok68 FFN)


	2. Chapter 2

#  **β**

#  **GROVER** **  
** **Lvl. 13 Farmer**

* * *

For all seventeen years of Grover’s life, Montauk was a constant; a consistent backdrop to his adventures through the Underwood. Seventeen years of festivities and raucous celebration (even if the noise made him too scared to participate). Of families expanding and children settling and young adults evolving into classes to suit their work. Of a bustling market—of whinging labourers and willful braggarts—the dull roar of valuing and haggling over merchandise and services. Seventeen years of a typical, small-town not significant enough to invite any conflict… 

… Reduced to rubble in under seventeen minutes.

The agora was in shambles. Shelves and tables were torn asunder; canvas tents ripped to shreds. Black pillars of smoke brushed the clouds, staining them with soot and raining ash down on the marketplace. The shops’ wares were everywhere _but_ in their displays, jutting out like islands in a swirling lake of oil and blood.

And all the bodies… 

Children, the elderly, pets—no one was spared. Clusters of people were huddled together in close-knit circles mourning their loved ones. A weeping mother was kneeling by two masses of eviscerated flesh, one significantly smaller than the other. Presumably, her husband and child. 

Grover averted his eyes from the grisly scene and shut them completely as the new widow cried towards the horizon, begging the Sea to return her family—pleading with the gods to take her instead. Asterix and Obelix brushed against his calves to comfort him, pushing against his walking stick. He smiled sadly at them and lifted them into his bag. (Despite crawling closer to their second winter, neither of them was larger than a regular newborn. Both were runts at birth, but their persistent minuscule size was getting silly.) Goliath, ever the protector, walked a pace in front of them and growled menacingly at anyone that passed—human or otherwise.

 _Thwack!_ Pain exploded in his leg, throbbing up to his knee. Goliath yelped and hid behind Grover’s legs like the brave hound he was.

His left foot had jerked out of sync with his right when it struck a patch of uneven terrain, his sandals doing little to protect his poor toes. Hissing in pain and resisting the urge to smack the ground with the goat-end of his staff, he focused on the cause of his sudden agony.

A sharp crack webbed like lightning through the central road. According to the townsfolk, Gaia herself opened her jaws and the Hellhounds spilt out onto the street to wreak havoc. When they were done, they retreated into the crevice and it shut behind them, leaving behind an ugly scar and destruction in their wake. At least Grover wasn’t the only one to struggle with the new feature of their road. Errand boys lugging medicine and sacrificial fowl cursed loudly as they were tripped, straining to keep their burdens up off the floor.

Keeping a careful eye on the ground to avoid any more bruised extremities, he made it to the beach just before dusk. Expecting to find Percy alone, he was surprised to see him hunched over, whispering with a familiar armoured blond: a Brawler named Luke, the son of Percy’s fishing master and the one who taught him how to fight.

Luke was a soldier in the Corinthian army, but he was discharged after he lost an arm. Grover often heard his father grumble that Corinth was probably glad to finally have an excuse; he didn’t approve of Luke very much. It wasn’t hard to see why—with his crass personality and less-than-honourable fighting methods—but he was always kind despite the Farmer’s admitted standoffish personality. He respected that some people simply preferred to keep quiet, and he never pressured Grover when he’d answer his questions with only nods or gestures.

He even offered to train Grover with Percy, but he watched just one of their “training sessions” and ran for the trees. If he wanted to spend hours getting beat up by people stronger than him, he’d spend less time in the Underwood.

He was broken from his reminiscing with Percy’s return. His knuckles were white against the leather-wrapped handle of a sheathed dagger.

“Why are we here?” Grover asked the crouching Sailor-turned-Raider while he pet Goliath on the head. He could only think of one reason Percy would have them meet at the closest point on the island to the mainland, and he didn’t like it.

“I’m heading West,” he told Grover as if it explained everything. “I’m going to rescue my mother. I wanted to say goodbye.”

 _Oh_. Suddenly his earlier behaviour made sense. When the Fury vanished, he didn’t scream. He didn’t break down crying or break down at all. He didn’t even spare a word for Grover or the sneering onlookers, he just walked away. He wasn’t angry. After over a decade of companionship, Grover knew when Percy was angry. His face was blank. Completely devoid of justifiable rage or sorrow. Just… nothing.

He was going to the Underworld. He must’ve decided then. And Grover could tell there was no convincing him otherwise.

“Save your farewells, I’m coming with you.” 

Ill-hidden gratitude flooded Percy’s eyes as they clasped each other's forearms, his shoulders losing a lot of tension. Grover got the message. Percy wouldn’t ask him to come on such a dangerous journey, but he was utterly relieved Grover was.

Percy was the closest thing he had to a brother, and Sally doted on them both so much it was barely a distinction at all. If Percy was going to get her back, Grover would be right at his side.

* * *

“We have to split up.”

It took them nearly three days on foot, but they made it Korinth in decent shape. They were beyond exhausted, mentally and physically—even _Grover_ was sick of the never-ending brush—but they were none the worse for wear.

“Right. I can grab supplies easily enough—we have a decent amount of silver—but we aren’t going to get very far with the directions: _‘head West’_.”

“Luke gave me a tip on where I can get something more specific.”

Grover started to nod, angling into a bright spotlight shining straight in his eye for the fifth time in as many minutes. “ _Ma Dia_ , would you quit it! No matter how many times you draw it, that damn blade isn’t going to do anything other than blind me!”

Percy made an unpleasant noise and hung the resheathed knife at his belt. “Luke wouldn’t give me a worthless dagger. It has to do _something_.”

Grover was sure he was right, but whatever special properties Luke’s knife had, _cutting_ was not one of them. Percy quickly became envious of Grover’s walking staff and decided to fashion his own from a fallen branch they found on the ground. When he tried to whittle off the sharp twigs poking out of it, the glowing blade just passed through—the branch completely unharmed. Grover grabbed it and tried to test the edge with his fingers, but they just passed through like they were made of smoke.

“I know, but it’s not hiding its magic when you pull it from its sheath. You aren’t going to _surprise_ it into revealing its secrets.”

Percy huffed and they finalised their plans. He would go follow Luke’s tip and procure a map to the Underworld whilst Grover used their silver to get enough food and water for the journey. When they were within the city walls, Grover split off towards the agora.

The streets of Korinth were nothing short of bizarre. Wide beaten paths wandered in and around tall, segmented buildings with roofs the same colour as fired clay. Sprawling trees provided shade for various passersby—and several had pink leaves! The symbol of Korinth—the top half of a white pegasus—adorned every available surface woven into magenta banners, gilded with gold. There was a distinct lack of children chasing each other in the courtyards and a dull rumble of too many conversations buzzed in the backdrop.

Thankfully, the people walking by ignored him. Often in Montauk—and even in Epidauros, the closest settlement to the island—people stared. Either because of his haphazardly pinned chiton or the animals in his bag, they would stop to watch him as he moved by them. He didn’t know why they tensed up as much as they did; he could personally attest he was _much_ more scared of them than they could ever be of him. In the bustling activity of Korinth Grover was invisible instead of a freak. The brisk stride of the Korinthians seemed to occupy all their focus. They were intent on their destination and nothing else—gaping and whispering towards Grover’s gangly appearance was a distraction they couldn’t afford. 

It was strangely pleasant to be overlooked. Grover sarcastically wondered what that said about the people of Montauk. Or perhaps what it said about _him_.

Finding the market wasn’t difficult. He followed the streams of traffic and they all converged near the southwestern wall around a tall statue of Aphrodite. Thick canopies—dyed the same magenta as the banners—lined the streets, adamantly guarding various wares against the unforgiving sun. Most of the tents had at least one disgruntled customer in front of them, gesturing wildly as they haggled back and forth with overworked Merchants.

Grover instinctively swerved away from the more _enthusiastic_ bartering. While the villagers of Montauk had no qualms about personal noise level while negotiating, there was always an undercurrent of affable competition to it. One that was glaringly absent in Korinth.

He approached a table weighed down with cloth parcels and ceramic containers. The shopkeeper’s back was to him so Grover cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

The man—a balding Butcher called Gordon—tilted his head to glance back at him. “Give me a minute!” 

Grover nodded and waited awkwardly for him to wrap up whatever he was doing. He glanced down at his sandals and brushed some dirt away with the butt of his staff.

“Alright, what d’you want then?” Gordon was loud and rather abrasive. Creased lines around his lips were indicative of frequent smiling, or possibly a permanent sneer. The way he regarded Grover with poorly-concealed disgust suggested the latter. Well-defined arms attached to broad shoulders and much of his neck was hidden under a thick, curly beard. He was rather heavyset, but the Farmer knew from experience that weight held no detriment to his fitness—if anything, it would only aid him in crushing Grover’s slight frame into submission.

So much of his childhood was spent in the wilderness; it would be remiss if he _wasn’t_ accomplished at identifying predators.

Goliath whimpered pitifully. Grover was tempted to follow his example. “What’s in this parcel, here?” He pointed to one of the bundles.

“Salted hams,” he grunted. Wafts of rot and animal-blood burned Grover’s nose.

“Right,” Grover coughed into his shoulder before gesturing towards another. “And this one?”

“Salted fish.”

“Right.” Grover scanned the table and tapped the lid of one of the pots.

“Honeyed hams,” Gordon supplied without prompting. Grover nodded and scratched the back of his neck.

He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, floundering to find the right words while internally deriding his complete lack of social graces. Obelix bleated into his ear and bonked her forehead against his wrist.

Gordon raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “Are you going to buy anything or not? Your dog is scaring my customers away.”

Sure enough, Goliath was zipping around his ankles baring his underdeveloped teeth at roaming strangers.

“S-sorry! My friend and I are about to go on a voyage, but we don’t actually know how long we’ll be sailing.”

“Where are you going?”

“We, _uh_ , we don’t know that either.”

Gordon shut his eyes and let out an irritated sigh. “What _do_ you know?”

“We’re sailing west?”

The Butcher pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath. Grover doubted it was very flattering towards him or his intelligence.

“I can get you two weeks worth for twenty drachmae.” He rested his palm against a larger sealed pot. “It should hold up against the perils of the sea.”

Grover baulked as his mouth became very dry. He had just over twenty-six drachmae to spend, and that was the sum of his and Percy’s life’s savings.

“ _W-wow._ That m-m-much, huh?” He blamed the oncoming winter for his chattering teeth.

Gordon’s expression turned stony. “Have you been wasting my time?”

“ _No!_ ” Grover waved his hands vigorously, briefly forgetting about the heavy stick in his hand and very nearly braining himself with its carved billy in his panic. “It’s nothing. _Here_.” He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to mask his reluctance as he forked over the silver.

He failed spectacularly.

Gordon scoffed at his face and started counting the coins. “Alright kid, tell you what. My son settled last week and I’ve been trying to find him something nice. That staff of yours is a fine piece. Make it yourself?”

Grover shook his head slowly. “My father, sir,” he corrected.

Blood-stained fingers came up to stroke Gordon’s beard. “I’d be willing to part with the meat for fifteen and the fancy stick. How ‘bout it? That’s five drachmae for something I could find on the ground, lad. More than generous.”

Grover gulped and shook his head again. “It’s not for sale, sir.”

Gordon’s beady eyes narrowed, deepening the lines in his forehead and cheeks. “Is that right?” he asked, stacking the silver.

“Yes, sir. It’s rather sentimental.” It was a gift. And a lesson.

Grover’s grandfather—a Woodcarver named Forrest—was a firm believer that using Skills for menial tasks was irresponsible—a waste of divine gifts. To instil that philosophy onto his son Woodrow—Grover’s dad—he taught him the fundamentals of whittling and told him to pick his poison in the Underwood. It took two weeks and three branches, but Woodrow eventually presented the fruit of his labour to his father: an ornate walking stick.

Twenty years later a ten-year-old Grover was given the same task; his dad was rather put out when he took half a day to fashion a set of reeds, dodging the point entirely. He huffed and told him the story of making it before giving him the prized staff as a “reminder that hard work pays off.”

It hadn’t left Grover’s person since.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak for a long enough period to explain all that, though, so he protectively pulled the shaft closer to his side and gripped it with both hands.

“ _I see._ ” Gordon eyed the craftsmanship appraisingly before seemingly shrugging it off as a lost cause. He swept the money into a purse hanging from his belt and pushed the jar in front of him. A vital flaw in Grover’s plan was immediately apparent.

“ _Umm_ …” he tried to wrap his free hand under the pot to no avail.

“Problem?” Gordon’s expression gave nothing away, but his smug posture was sufficient.

“No.” Grover jerked his head to either side. He clumsily slotted his staff in his elbows and tried to lift the jar. His knees buckled under the unexpected weight; he recovered before they failed him entirely with all the grace of a drowning bat. He awkwardly angled his body and side-stepped away.

They could use the oil soaking the meat, but pork and wine wouldn’t be enough on the water. Grover sighed and dragged his feet to what he assumed was the bakery.

* * *

It was the smithy.

Fortunately, the Blacksmith was leagues more helpful than Gordon the Grumpy and pointed him in the right direction. From the Baker, he bought enough bread to pair with the hams, tightly wrapped in cloth and rope to be hung on his back. While certainly more expensive than Grover was used to, the cost didn’t come anywhere near the price of the meat. With the rest of the silver, he was able to get two of the largest hydriai the Potter had and a full dish of table olives. As he filled the jugs at the central fountain his mind focused on his most immediate problem.

He couldn’t carry it all. That much was obvious.

It wasn’t just the weight. Everything was heavy, sure, but above all else it was _cumbersome_. The round, irregular shapes of the ceramic made stacking impossible and if he dragged them behind him they were likely to shatter. Normally—when one bought as much as Grover did—he had an army of slaves with him strictly for transport. His temporary solution was to look quite foolish as he walked in short bursts. He carried what he could roughly ten paces before setting them down and doubling back to grab the rest. He needed to stow his haul somewhere safe before he regrouped with Percy. Winter would be over before he found him at his current pace.

Both jugs were full and he had no feasible way to move them. Water was _heavy_.

So Grover sat at the edge of the fountain for several minutes, glaring at his groceries to intimidate them into revealing a practical plan of attack. An older woman passing by noticed his plight and took pity on him.

“You must be new here,” she guessed. “You’re looking for the Scrivener.”

Grover tilted his head, confused. “The what? Like a Scribe?” A Scribe was a Worker class that primarily served in the parties of relevant people. When their masters needed to write a missive or announcement, they’d dictate their words for a Scribe to dutifully copy verbatim.

She chuckled elegantly, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t call him that within his earshot. A Scrivener is a Mage class, and we can be slightly temperamental.” She winked as she corrected him, taking any bite out of her tone.

Grover’s eyes widened as he noticed her class for the first time: _Pyromancer._ It was _violet_. He’d never seen a hero’s label before. Not in person. They didn’t exactly take rest-stops in Montauk.

The Mage ( _Bryssa_ ) was lavishly wealthy. Her clothes were prim and fresh, accented by golden finery dangling from her ears and neck. Half a dozen slaves trailed behind her, arms laden with various goods.

“Grab his things,” she commanded. Two of the servants offloaded onto the others before each picked up a full pitcher. Bryssa pulled Grover up so he was standing in front of her and brushed off his shoulders. “Come along, boy.”

She seemed to exude a comforting warmth that made her very easy to talk to. For the first time in his life, Grover could speak freely without feeling self-conscious. As they walked he told her about his home. About the Underwood and Percy. About his hatred of boats even though his best friend was a Sailor. He even introduced her to the flock. She was quite taken with the withdrawn Asterix and produced a handful of barley from within her cloak to feed him. Where she got the young lamb’s favourite food from, Grover didn’t have a clue.

Before he knew it, they arrived at the Scrivener’s shop. Unlike the others, the Scrivener wasn’t under a tent. Nor was he was a building of any kind. Instead, he was relaxing at the base of an ancient tree, idly doodling on a thin wax slab with a nail.

“ _Praisseis_ , John,” Bryssa greeted. The absent-minded writer hummed in acknowledgement. “This is Grover, and he requires your services. This is where I leave you, child. May the gods bless your journey.”

For a split-second, Grover could have sworn her irises flickered. He chalked it up to a trick of the light and thanked her profusely. She just waved him off and had her slaves set Grover’s water on the ground.

“ _Erroso_ , young Farmer. Fare thee well.” She walked away, her posse right on her heels. Grover opened his purse to count his remaining silver, and when he looked up again she was gone. How has she rounded the corner so quickly? Before he could ponder further, John addressed him. At least, Grover thought was talking to him. He was looking off into the distance but no one else was around.

“So, you need to move all this?”

Grover’s tongue—predictably—failed him. After four futile attempts at speaking, he just nodded.

“If you’re nodding, boy, I can’t tell—I’m _blind_.”

His head stilled.

“How much bread do you have? I can smell it. The meat, too. Set it down—I need to feel the pot for size.”

Grover crouched down to rest the amphora right before him and unhooked the sack of bread from his shoulders.

John reached out with boney fingers and ran them down the contours of the terracotta, muttering under his breath. He repeated his process twice more before reaching in a dish beside him and scooping out a few handfuls of clay, which he then efficiently shaped into a flat brick.

“The meat, the water, the bread. Anything else?”

Grover almost shook his head before he caught himself and stammered out a negative.

“Alright. _Thirty chalkoi_.”

…

Oh, right. _Payment_. Grover wished he could crawl in a hole and wither away.

“Is there a problem?” John asked, looking up and staring slightly to Grover’s left.

“NO! _N-no._ Not a problem.”

He made a show of slowly counting his coins. After running out at twelve, he jostled the strange gold pieces Percy got from the hellhounds.

“ _Stop_.”

Grover went rigid, not even allowing himself to breath. Could John hear the difference? Were his ears that good? Did he already know Grover couldn’t pay?

“You have golden drachmae?” he asked, pale, off-putting eyes fixated on his purse. “Five of those will do.”

Grover was so relieved he didn’t even ask what golden drachmae were. He just gathered five of the stamped glittering disks and dropped them in John’s waiting palm.

“Perfect. Stand back.”

Grover stepped away and watched in awe as—one by one—the items he’d been sloppily lugging around the market collapsed into glossy smoke and funnelled into words carved into the surface of the clay.

Grover squirmed to read the tablet upside-down: _Bread, Pork, Water._

When all the groceries were gone, John’s eyes pulsed with magic. The wet, malleable clay began to harden and take on a deep orange hue. Thirty seconds later it was done, perfect, freshly-fired ceramic.

“When you want your stuff back, break it.”

“Yes, sir,” he assented, slipping the tablet back into his bag. Asterix and Obelix complained in muted bleats. Grover rolled his eyes and stuffed the cloth from the bakery over the plate.

“Off with you,” John shooed, sniffing his gold. Grover averted his gaze and took a swift exit towards the port. Hopefully, Percy had an easier time than he did.

He made it to the docks in a decent time, but it didn’t take a Sailor to know something was amiss. Traders were sporting harsh bruises. Fishermen walked with limps. Engineers were rushing to and fro, frantically repairing decks and spars. Tailors were hard at work patching sails and repairing armour.

Navigators looked lost. Deckhands were dead on their feet. Boatswains were empty-handed and bereft of recruits. Oarsmen were barely standing—held up by leaning heavily on their namesake. A pair of rushing workers ran along the coast dragging timbers and whispering furiously at each other. As they stepped around Grover with nary a missed beat, he caught the tail end of their hushed conversation.

_“—Like it was looking for something…”_

_“That’s mad! It nearly tore the hull to splinters!”_

_“We didn’t chase it off! It let us…”_ their voices faded out of range.

There was something in the water. An angry god? A renegade crew of pirates? A monster? Maybe more than one? Grover’s knee-jerk reaction was to panic and convince Percy to call off the mission, but then he remembered Sally. Always kind. Always gentle. She never had a harsh word against anyone, yet the entire town ostracised for giving birth to Grover’s best friend. They dismissed her as a naive trollop for sixteen years and she never wavered. Now she was being held captive in some cruel game of the gods, and Grover didn’t doubt her strength for a second.

Fear was a powerful motivator, but it didn’t hold a candle to Sally’s force of will.

The beginnings of an idea started to pulse in the back of Grovers’s head. If he could find a smaller crew—one that couldn’t afford to wait the monster out—they might be able to trade passage further west for labour. Percy’s prowess on the water was nothing to scoff at and Grover was well-versed in medicinal healing. (His father—the village herbalist—had been teaching him his trade since Grover settled and gained the herd. According to him, taking care of the animals if they ever fell ill or became injured was an essential part of caretaking.)

He honed in on the sorry state of one boat and approached whom he assumed was in charge based on him bellowing at the toiling crew. He raised his staff and waved it in greeting.

“Hello…” his eyes flicked above the burly man’s head, “Mr Adrian. Are you the master of this ship?”

Adrian—a Helmsman—gave him a suspicious side-eye and grunted his confirmation. “What do you want, Farm Boy?” His voice was very rough, as if he diluted his wine with sand. Grover chalked it up to all the shouting.

“I was wondering if you were short on crew? My friend is a Raider, see, and we—”

“Quit wasting my time, _Farmer_.” Grover recoiled at the captain’s palpable disdain for his settle and tried to make himself as small as possible. “I have other shit to worry about without dragging her down with dead weight. Even those lambs of yours aren’t worth the meat on their bones.” Adrian didn’t care to shoo him off, he just turned back to his men and continued yelling orders.

Grover gaped at his back. He didn’t know _what_ he expected, but Adrian’s hostile dismissal dislodged his tentative confidence in his plan. He adjusted his bag to hide Asterix and Obelix behind him.

He coughed a viscous lump out his throat and drug his feet to another dilapidated trade ship.

Three ships—and two scathing remarks about his settle/herd—later he was on the verge of dropping the matter entirely.

 _“You there! With the dog!”_ Grover’s head shot up and swivelled around to locate the speaker. It was a woman standing at the helm of a short vessel docked at the far end of the harbour. The ship was in much better shape than the others; her mast was untouched and her cracks were freshly filled and sealed. She only had one set of oars, a rare occurrence but not unheard of—people like Percy could pick up the slack just fine on their own—and one word was painted on the port side of her hull in thick, bold letters:

 **_KLEO_ **.

“C’mon Goliath.”

_“Arf!”_

Grover walked over to their prospective employer until he could just make out the white name emblazoned above her: _Lydia_.

Her class was unfamiliar to him. Granted, that wasn’t saying much, but normally the name of a class was enough to take an educated guess on what they did. Grover couldn’t make heads nor tails of what a “Wrangler” was best at.

When he got close enough to fully behold her, he froze.

She was breathtaking.

Hephaestus himself must’ve carved her svelte, statuesque figure—carefully honed for months to achieve absolute perfection. Delicate ears framed prominent cheekbones, equidistant to her thin, elegant nose. Her skin glowed like alabaster in the waning rays of the evening sun. Rich copper braids wove together and joined at the back of her head sporting flowers and bangles of gold. Grover swallowed and tried his best not to stutter.

“M-ma’am?” 

_Damn it!_

“Greetings, Grover.” Her voice was smooth and mellifluous—swirling around his temples and making his fingers numb. “I couldn’t help but overhear your plight. Why don’t you come on board so we can hash out a deal?”

His head was nodding of its own accord as the young Farmer nearly tripped over himself to rush to her side. Something was tugging at the bottom of his chiton, but he nudged it off without looking down—how could he when met with such a captivating muse?

“Grab the bag for me, _darling_ , won’t you?” A blank-faced man with empty eyes tried to relieve Grover of his burden, tugging robotically on the leather straps when his fingers tightened automatically. A novel prickling spread through the back of his mind. _The bag…_ It was important? Something in it was shifting uncomfortably against his ribs.

What could be more important than the transcendent mirage that was Lydia?

She wanted the bag.

 _He would give her the bag_.

His fingers slackened. A muted rumbling broke through his blanket of bliss, but he closed his ears against such distractions and focused back on _Lydia_.

“Someone shut that thing up!”

A faceless Deckhand reared back and _kicked_. The rumbling was cut off by a keen yelp.

Grover seized. He just… he just kicked Goliath…

His staff clattered against the deck. 

_Asterix and Obelix!_

A tidal wave roared in Grover’s ears as he jerked away from Lydia. While she was still quite attractive, her sneering cruelty and the nausea welling in Grover’s chest was a very strong deterrent. Her bronzed skin was suddenly alien over ethereal. Her high cheekbones gave her a sunken appearance and her hair was engraved into improperly-fired clay.

Goliath was curled into a protective ball three paces to Grover’s right. He would have scooped the pup into his arms if they weren’t immediately pulled behind his back.

Captain Lydia appeared vaguely amused as if a persistent rat proved himself notably clever whilst avoiding her house-serpent. And like the rat, his performance wouldn’t keep him alive. “ _Hmm._ Colour me intrigued, Farmer.” She strutted over and raked her nails down his trembling neck. “Able to overcome my thrall? Resisting is easy—if your level’s high enough—but you broke from the clutches of my Soul. Such a shame. I rarely find a specimen as interesting as _you_ nowadays. _Take him below deck, please and thank you_.”

Now that he was outside the effects of her aura Grover could clearly hear her voice become heavier, her enchanting words becoming layered with power and influence. The gormless goon holding his wrists hostage grunted a pungent “your welcome” through Grover’s hair before half-shoving/half-carrying him below deck.

The smell hit him first, like sweaty livestock bathing in hot spoilt milk. It pervaded his nostrils and nearly bowled him over. His eyes burned and watered, blurring the edge of his vision. He tried to shut them but discovered he couldn't; his eyelids were stuck. His temples _screamed_ when light stabbed through the fog and scorched the base of his brain. He turned away from the source—an oddly shaped golden sword—and flinched, revolted by the main attraction of the room.

Dozens of narrow, quivering bars blocked off an entire half of the downstairs floor space. They were remarkably thin—almost passable for wire—but something told Grover he’d have an easier time cutting through a mountain. Magic. That much was obvious. Within the cage, three pathetic animals laid broken on thin beds of limp straw. They were dirty, sickly and surrounded by oily irons. Bubbling bile crawled up Grover’s throat.

The largest of the trio was a skeletal lion fruitlessly clawing at slick metal clamping its maw shut. Its coat was caked with grime but Grover caught hints of a white mane poking through the filth in rough patches. Thick, forged chains were shackled to it from six points: the muzzle, the legs and the tail.

A strange four-legged creature was in the best shape of the three. It _almost_ looked like a stag, but in lieu of antlers, its horns swept back in waves, the same way long grass danced in the summer breeze. Its legs were bound but it was relatively clean, and evidently, it was deemed worthy of only one manacle and tether. It took full advantage of that fact and manoeuvred itself as far away from the ravenous predator as possible.

The final beast was the strangest of the three. Grover couldn’t make out what it was, but it was covered in scarlet feathers and it was shivering violently. He counted three sets of chains coming from it, but it was half-hidden behind the lion and hark to make out. His eyesight was only getting worse the longer he spent in the cramped belowdecks.

“ _Beautiful_ , aren’t they?” Lydia leaned across Grover’s back and pressed her chin into his shoulder. He stilled, eyes bulging with abject terror. Her breath rustled the wisps of his facial hair as she spoke directly into his ear. “The kitten over there is going to some has-been King. He isn’t very popular with his people, so he’s requested something to liven up his public executions. We’re taking bets on how long it’ll take for his subjects to feed him to the beast—you haven’t seen him, but trust me, he’d make for one _satisfying_ meal.”

Grover took shallow breaths through his mouth and struggled to wrench himself free as Asterix and Obelix were dropped unceremoniously into the hay.

Lydia continued without missing a beat, running her fingers through his hair fondly. “I help creatures of all kinds reach their greatest potential. You can rest easy knowing your pets are being well cared for, _Grover_ .” She tugged hard on his curls and exposed his neck. “ _My knife, dear._ ” A hulking thug—so large he had to slouch to keep his head from scraping the ceiling—lumbered over and presented a wicked curved dagger held hilt-side forward in his meaty fist.

Right before he was in range for the smuggling captain to take it from him, he straightened his back and slammed his skull into the deckhead.

“ _Argh!_ ” Grover couldn’t tell if his pained cry was because of his newly-throbbing head or Goliath’s teeth deep in his ankle.

The momentary distraction loosened Lydia’s grip for barely a second, but Grover pounced on her weakness and drove his elbow into her lungs. Luke’s frequent tips flashed to the forefront of his memory.

_“You aren’t hitting your enemy; you’re hitting whatever’s behind them. They’re just in the way.”_

Grover broke away as she keeled over. He scooped Goliath up and ran for everything he was worth.

He burst out into open air and sprinted along the deck. A few crewmates turned towards the commotion but he was already sprinting along the deck. He ducked under their outstretched arms and leapt off the side of the ship.

The resounding _‘slap!’_ of his sandals against solid ground never sounded sweeter.

“ _Find Percy!_ ” he yelled desperately. Goliath yipped in agreement and scarpered, Grover right on his tail—thanks to liberal use of _Locate Stragglers_.

If he wasn’t so horrified he would’ve taken a moment to revel in vindication.

_Nothing good ever happened on a boat._

* * *

**GROVER**

**Lvl. 13 Farmer**

_Aspects_

Mind: 29

Body: 36

Breath: 32

Soul: 51

Arcana: 24

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> I hope you enjoyed the second chapter of Rescue. Writing from Grover's perspective was a bit of a change from my norm. His personality isn't one I'm accustomed to writing but I'm overall quite happy with how it turned out. Capturing his voice well in an ancient context was challenging at first but when I got into the swing of it I was just having fun.
> 
> Just in case it wasn't entirely clear, Grover's flock consists of two runt lambs—Asterix and Obelix—and a small shepherd pup called Goliath.  
> Asterix is a boy and quite timid.  
> Obelix is a girl and very headstrong.  
> Goliath is just glad to be there (he's also a boy).
> 
> Stay safe out there. Cheers!
> 
> —Pincoat(TheUnHolySmirk)


End file.
